


Nameday

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first person in their little group to have a Nameday at Skyhold was Dorian... Somehow a series of traditions became established. But how will Cullen make Eve’s day special? How will she make his special?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameday

The first person in their little group to have a Nameday at Skyhold was Dorian.

He and Iron Bull had unceremoniously burst into Cullen’s office, blind drunk, half empty bottles dangling from their fingers and proclaimed the hour as ‘party hour’. He’d begun to protest as they’d stumbled about his office, scattering his possessions, but Bull had slung an arm around his shoulder and explained that ‘the Vint’ was turning a year older and that had been that. He’d obediently taken the half empty bottle Bull had slammed into his chest, raised it in toast and taken a swig.

Then he’d promptly started coughing and spluttering.

To this day he still had no idea what it was he’d actually drunk, but it had got him good and inebriated, good and fast.

He’d pulled the bottle of wine he’d been keeping in his desk from its hiding place and joined them. Together they’d stumbled through the keep, gathering the others. Each person they encountered made a brief protest (in Varric’s case, a dry comment on the theme of how none of them could handle their drink, in Josephine’s case, a high pitched shriek as her carefully ordered papers went flying), then, after they’d explained the reason for their inebriation, the protestations faded in favour of said person joining the party.

Evelyn had simply laughed as Dorian had grabbed both her hands in his and swung her around her quarters while singing the Nameday song to  _himself_ . After, she’d rolled her eyes, shaken her head and joined them as well.

Somehow or other all twelve of them had made it to the Herald’s Rest. Maryden had struck up a cheerful tune and they’d all careened stupidly about the tavern singing the Nameday song in loud tuneless voices. Josephine had produced a cake, he had no idea how. Someone had also found some candles in a forgotten corner behind the bar and they’d all crowded round a single table to sing the song one more time while Dorian blew them out.

The next Nameday had been Sera’s. Or at least, she claimed it was her Nameday. It had fallen suspiciously close to Dorian’s, and since she also claimed not to know her parents or the circumstances of her birth, he didn’t see how she could possibly know when her Nameday fell. In any case, she had demanded the same sort of party as ‘the fop’ and attendance had been mandatory under pain of serious prankage.

She’d, understandably, gotten her wish and just like that it had become a tradition.

As each Nameday fell, each member of the inner circle received the same treatment. A lot of alcohol. A lot of tuneless rambunctious singing, and a cake.

His came and went in the same fashion as everyone else’s, but with a few important additions.

The first was the letter to Mia. The one he’d written to her every year on his Nameday without fail.

When he’d first left home it had been his way of recreating the small family parties they’d always had. He’d missed them and while, back then, he wouldn’t have traded his Templar schooling for anything, he’d felt the need to do something involving his family on his Nameday, no matter how small.

He’d spent the Nameday immediately after the fall of Kinloch Hold horrendously drunk because he’d taken any excuse to become so back then. In the early hours, just as sobriety had started to kick in, he’d remembered that he hadn’t written a letter yet. He had sat down to write one, simply because that was what he’d always done. In the morning, when he woke, he’d noticed the crumpled piece of paper on the floor besides his bunk. He’d smoothed it out and read it but had obviously never sent the bitter, angry recounting of the previous year or so.

The next year he’d been, Maker, he didn’t even remember where, but he’d been tired, really tired. So tired that he’d sat down and begun to write before he’d even really realised what he was doing. Again when he’d read it through the next morning he’d found the letter too tinged by his anger to really send. But it had felt… good to write it, even if he never actually sent it. He’d kept the tradition of writing a letter each year, even after Kinloch. Half of them he never sent, but even if he didn’t writing it had kept him grounded, kept him tethered to his former life and the person he used to be. He’d valued that, always had, always  _would_ .

This year he’d had to send the letter. He’d promised to write her a longer one after all. No doubt she would want to know every detail. Oh not about Coryphaeus, or the giant hole in the sky, or the Mage-Templar war. No, Mia Rutherford would have an almost singular interest in her little brother’s love-life. He should have been more careful phrasing his previous letter to her. Calling Evelyn by her given name had been a hint he should have known she wouldn’t miss.

He’d been partway through writing the letter, making sure to fully recount the war and all the events leading up to it, while dropping only a few hints about his relationship with Evelyn. If you couldn’t drive your older sister crazy then what fun was there to be had in being a younger brother?

Then the Inquisitor in question had entered and presented him with a gift. He’d tried to tell her that she didn’t have to get him anything, that just having some time alone with her that day would have been enough, but she’d waved away his protestations and handed him the neatly wrapped parcel.

“I hope you like it,” she’d said as she’d handed it over. He was about to tell her that, considering the source, he was  _bound_ to love it no matter what it was, when his fumbling fingers peeled away some of the wrapping allowing him to see half of it.

The words had immediately died on his lips and he’d torn the rest of the paper away in order to confirm his suspicions. He had then been confronted with a gilt frame surrounding a beautifully rendered oil painting of his lake. Every detail was perfect, the perspective taken from his favourite place to stand and admire, the colours and lines so realistic that were he to hold it close and let it fill his vision he’d almost believe he was there. Just looking at it had already caused a feeling of peace to settle over him. She’d commissioned it, he’d realised. Surely there was no way she could have merely  _found_ such a thing.

He’d gazed up at her, awed and stunned and  _speechless_ . 

She’d looked… almost nervous. Maker, was she worried he didn’t  _like it?_

He’d wanted to tell her how much he loved it, how much he loved her for getting it for it for him, how much having it would mean, how much it would help… But he couldn’t, there just weren’t the words to express it.

She’d chewed her bottom lip, the way she did when she was worried.

“I thought perhaps you could hang in it your room,” she’d said slowly, keeping her eyes away from his own and on the painting itself. “If it was the first thing you saw maybe…” 

He’d kissed her; there was no other way he could think of, no words to express his gratitude, his thanks. He’d surged forward, pulling her body into his arms and her lips towards his mouth. He’d kissed her with all the passion he was capable of, and all the emotion that her gift had stirred in him. She’d pressed closer to him, slowly wrapping her arms around him until she’d been holding him as tightly as he’d been holding her.

The need for air had eventually required him to release her lips, but in that moment nothing short of that base necessity would have parted them.

“I take it you approve of your gift then?” she’d said, once she’d recovered from his kiss and yes, she  _had_ needed to recover from his kiss and yes,that  _had_ made him feel just a little bit smug. Her tone had been teasing, light, and her eyes had sparkled with mischief. He’d closed his own eyes and sighed, part frustration that she’d make light of the situation, part wonder that this beautiful wonderful woman had not only given him this perfect gift but also herself, and part because of the need to regain control of his emotions in the hope that perhaps he might then be able to  _tell_ her what it meant.

“It’s  _perfect_ ,”was all he’d been able to manage when he’d re-opened his eyes and they’d met hers.

He’d stolen another few kisses and then, at her suggestion, they’d retreated upstairs to hang the painting. However, somehow they’d ended up in his bed, and then there’d been more interesting things to do than hang a painting. He’d finally hung it himself the afternoon after she’d left on her latest venture. It was now the first thing he saw when he awoke. 

He’d had one other notable present that day. Around mid-afternoon, Cassandra had popped her head around the door and asked him if he had a moment. He’d replied that he had but she’d promptly disappeared returning a second later carrying a long thin package which she’d presented to him. He’d been more than a little surprised, but he’d thanked her and had immediately opened the offered gift.

“A sword?” he’d questioned, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and feeling that delicious feeling you got when the leather was new and rough and yet to be softened by use and sweat. Cassandra had simply smiled a smug all-knowing smile that he wasn’t entirely sure he was happy about seeing.

“Draw it,” she’d said. He’d done so only to be confronted by an engraving of Andraste rendered in exquisite black and silver detail just below the cross guard. An odd choice, he’d thought, for the Commander of an organisation which the Chantry had openly denounced.

But then he’d looked closer and realised he knew those eyes, that hair, that jawline.

“Is that… Evelyn?” he’d asked, holding the blade parallel to his eyes. Behind the sword, Cassandra’s grin had widened.

“It is. Every noble knight should have a likeness of his lady on him.” She spoke as if reciting from a text, as if it were obvious, expected.

“Noble knight? Really?” he’d questioned with a raised, sceptical eyebrow, sheathing the sword once more. Cassandra had huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Fine, every Commander should have something of the woman he loves about him,” she’d corrected, shooting him a ‘happy now’ glance and folding her arms across her chest.

He’d smiled at her childishness, running his fingers along the outside of sheath, where he knew the carving rested. Overly romantic though it might be, the thought of going into battle with a carving of Eve as Andraste on his sword was somehow appealing.

“Thank you,” he’d murmured softly, his eyes remaining on the sword.

“You’re welcome,” she’d replied just as softly. “Just don’t break it the first time you use it? You know, try to act like you can  _actually_ fight.”

“Hilarious,” he’d replied dryly, rolling his eyes at her.

She’d grinned at him then before punching him on the arm in the ‘friendly’ way she often did (it still hurt, not that he’d ever admit it) and leaving. He’d partially drawn the sword once more, just enough in order to be able to admire the carving for a moment before he’d strapped it to his sword belt. It hadn’t left his side since.

Of course, then there had been the drinking, tuneless rambunctious singing, and cake that hallmarked all the other Namedays at Skyhold.

It had been the best Nameday he’d had in a very long time. Now hers was upon them and he was determined that hers would be just as good, better even, if he could manage it.

Tracking down her gift had taken weeks, but he’d been adamant and persevered and finally it had been unearthed, a pocket sized copy of ‘La Rosa Con Furia’.

He’d caught her reading it in the garden by torchlight one night, her feet curled under her, chin propped on an upraised palm, a big, dopey smile on her face as she’d read. He’d been curious as to what could cause such a smile to fall across her beautiful features and so had asked her about it.

She’d explained that it had been the first novel she’d come across in the Circle library. That on that first, strange, lonely, night she’d stayed awake all night reading it under her sheets. She’d told him that the courage, determination and bravery of the female heroine had helped her stay strong and taught her to fight for what she believed in. That in her darkest moments she’d always held on to the values that the story had taught her. She’d also mentioned that her beloved heroine’s handsome paramour had also had a certain appeal.

The copy she’d been reading was barely holding together, the pages yellowed, the spine bent. She’d confessed that it was the copy from the Ostwick Circle of Magi, which she’d ‘liberated’ that first night. Certain pages had the corners folded down. Her favourite parts, she’d said.

“What part were you reading?” he’d asked, still seeking the source of that smile, and noting that her current page happened to have a folded corner

“It’s… a… It’s the part where he first kisses her,” she’d muttered, her cheeks turning an absolutely lovely shade of red. He hadn’t been able to resist laughing at her just a little, though it was more due to her embarrassment than what she’d actually said.

“Read it to me?” he’d asked as a peace offering. She’d protested but only until he’d told her why he wanted to know.

“Well I’ll have to explain the back-story first,” she’d said.

She’d ended up reading him all her favourite passages, explaining the bits in-between with wild animated gestures and bright shining eyes. She’d spoken so fast that he’d barely been able to understand her but that was fine. He could listen to her forever, as long as she was this animated and happy and passionate about it.

Eventually he hadn’t been able to stand her beauty as she’d talked about her favourite book, and had stopped her from reading the last few extracts so he could drag her upstairs and ravish her properly. After, she had confessed that asides from seeing him and being around a decent bath, being able to read ‘La Rosa Con Furia’ was one of the best things about coming home.

After that there was only one possible present he could give her for her Nameday. She’d be able to take the pocket copy with her when she left Skyhold, and it’d be one less thing for her to miss while she was away. He’d compared both copies of the book and was fairly confident that he’d managed to mark all her favourite passages in the new copy. He’d even managed to wrap it neatly, with a pretty purple bow and everything.

Now if he could just find her perhaps he’d be able to  _actually_ give it to her.

He, Leliana and Josephine had all agreed that, as far as possible, she should have today to herself so he knew she wouldn’t be in the war room, the rookery or Josephine’s office. Or at least she shouldn’t be. Unless they hadn’t listened to him… but no, he was well aware that he wasn’t the only person in Skyhold who cared for her and they’d wanted her to have this day too.

He checked her quarters first, thinking she might still be asleep considering that there wouldn’t be,  _shouldn’t be,_ any reason for her to rise early but she was nowhere to be found. Then, he checked the library, the one below the keep where she often liked to hide away if she  _really_ didn’t want to be found. Again, there was no sign of her there. Then he checked the tavern, the main library, even Solas’ rotunda all to no avail.

 Eventually, he found her in the war room poring over the reports that typically littered the table.

“Ah,” she greeted him as he entered. “Are we holding council after all?” She threw aside the report she had been perusing and moved to take her usual place at the war table. “Good, because I’ve been thinking about this Lydes business and I really think…”

“Evelyn,” he said, interrupting her before she launched into a speech about Lydes or whatever it was. “What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t we meeting today?” she asked, sounding just as confused as he was. Hadn’t Leliana or Josephine told her she was supposed to be having the day off?

“We thought… We thought you might want today free,” he replied hesitantly. “As it’s your Nameday and all.” He was curious as to why she hadn’t seemed to realise that. “Isn’t it?” he pressed when she didn’t say anything, wondering if perhaps Leliana’s spies had somehow gotten it wrong.

“I suppose it is,” she agreed quietly, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I don’t… I don’t really celebrate my Nameday, at least not anymore.” The sad tone of her voice pulled at his heart.

He stepped closer to her, tenderly gripping her chin and tiling her face up to meet his.

“Why?” he asked her quietly, staring into her eyes.

She shrugged. “It was years ago, and once I was in the circle it just… didn’t seem to matter.”

“Tell me?” he begged. Even if whatever had happened had happened years ago, if it still made her sad then he wanted to know. “Besides,” he added as a little extra motivation. “You know how much Dorian and Bull love the traditional Skyhold Nameday celebrations. You didn’t honestly think they’d let yours pass without one, did you?” 

“I had hoped,” she replied, managing a small smile. “All right, fine.” She stepped away from him a little and turned to gaze out of the nearby window. “The last Nameday I celebrated was my eleventh. It was perhaps one, no, two days after I’d accidentally scorched my best friend with magical fire. We didn’t know that her mother had called upon the Templars and they… they came for me in the middle of my party. I cried and screamed and my mother begged them to wait until the end of the day, to let me open my presents at least but they wouldn’t relent and… well… that was the last time I saw my childhood home.” She paused and he thought he saw her wipe a single tear from her eye before she shrugged and seemed to shake it off. “Then the next year, all I could think of was how I wasn’t at home, and no-one had ever bothered to ask me when my Nameday was and I suppose over time I just… stopped caring about it.”

He felt almost irrationally angry and guilty, really guilty. That the order he’d once belonged to had robbed someone as incredible as her of something as simple as her Nameday celebration was almost enough to turn his stomach. It just seemed unfair, and wrong and… He shook his head to clear his thoughts, his own demons could wait. This was about her and her Nameday.

“Then it’s time you started celebrating again,” he declared, stepping up beside her and leaning against the other side of the window.

“I wouldn’t know how,” she said quietly, though he could see something of a smile flirting about her lips.

“All right. Well. What did you used to do at home?” he asked. “Before the Templars came,” he clarified in response to her confused look.

“You know, I really don’t remember,” she said quietly her gaze moving off out of the window once more, lost in some distant memory. He knew the feeling well, it was the one he himself had experienced in Kirkwall while trying to recall happier times before the order. She chuckled quietly after a moment. “There was a cake,” she said slowly. “We made it, me and my mother. It was the only time either of us ever set foot in the kitchen…”

“Did you even know what the kitchen looked like, Miss High Class Noble Lady?” he teased seeking to pull her out of her somewhat melancholy mood. She rewarded his efforts with another chuckle and a little shove to his chest.

“Oh, because  _you’re_ secretly a culinary wiz?” she replied “Mr Ex-Templar whose meals were always provided by the order?”

“Good point,” he conceded. His gaze followed hers out the window and they lapsed into silence.

“We should be able to manage a cake though, right?” he said after a moment.

As it turned out, no, no they really couldn’t.

An hour or so later he was stood in what was still technically the kitchen, even if it looked like a horde of rampaging Qunari had stormed through it. They had somehow managed to use virtually every single bowl and utensil in the kitchen, all of which were now dripping in cake mixture and stacked haphazardly around the counters. She was currently pouring their fifth mixture into the cake mould. The mixture was thick, filled with visible lumps and seemed most unwilling to crawl out of the bowl.

That was probably his fault. He hadn’t wanted to stir it too hard after he’d whisked batch two (or was it batch three?) so hard that it had sprayed everywhere. There was still a little of it caught in his pauldrons and he had no idea how he was going to get it out. But she’d laughed and kissed the mixture off of his lips, so perhaps it had been worth it.

She herself was virtually still covered in flour, having ripped open a new bag with such fervour that it had promptly blown up in her face. He’d damn near killed himself laughing as her stunned eyes had blinked open in the sea of white that covered her face. She’d tried to clean herself up with a damp cloth but had managed to miss enough of it that’d he’d had an excuse to take over and gently wipe the remainder from her skin, stealing a kiss or six in the process.

But she was happy and that was the important thing.

He’d declared this attempt the last and once she’d placed it in the oven, which she’d lit just moments before, he would take her back to her quarters and present her with her gift.

“There,” she declared triumphantly sliding the “cake” into the oven and beaming at him. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that it was highly unlikely that that cake was going to actually taste good or of anything, really.

Instead, he simply ushered her upstairs and into the bathroom so she could clean up properly. While she was safely sequestered, he took the opportunity to take her gift from its hiding place.

She’d love it. She would. He’d gotten everything right.

So why did he suddenly feel so nervous?

So she hadn’t celebrated a Nameday since she was 11 and yes, this would be the first Nameday gift she’d received since then…

Oh Maker.

What if she still wasn’t ready to celebrate?

What if there was a  _reason_ she didn’t take the book with her, asides from its size?

What if she…

He heard the washroom door click open and immediately spun around, shoving the box behind his back.

“That’s better,” she said, towelling the worst of the moisture out of her hair before tying it back quickly. “So, what now?”

“Well… er… I know you don’t celebrate Namedays,” he replied, nervously fingering the box behind his back. He had to give it to her, he just had to, he wanted her to have it. “But I… er… got you something anyway… If you want it that is… I mean, you don’t have to…”

"Cullen?”

“Right,” he said, recognising the tone of voice she always used to stop his babbling. “Happy Nameday!” He pulled the box from behind his back and presented her with it.

He knew he’d done well the moment she untied the bow and gasped. He was fairly certain that he would forever treasure the happy, excited, extraordinarily  _pleased_ look that passed across her face as she lifted the book from its trappings.

“You can… ahh… take it with you when you go,” he explained, when she didn’t say anything. Doubt started to creep back in in his mind, if she wasn’t saying anything did that mean she didn’t like it? She merely nodded and turned the book to the side in her hands.

“You marked all the passages,” she murmured slowly, running her fingers almost reverently down the spine.

“Of course,” he replied, managing to conjure a small smile. “There’s a dedication too.” He reached over, pulling the front cover back as she held it in order to let her read the inscription he’d written there.

_For you Evelyn, to give you strength and courage when I cannot be beside you – Cullen._

When she raised her eyes to his they were glistening with unshed tears. “Cullen… I…”

“I’m sorry…” he began, he’d been a complete fool, her first Nameday gift in 15 years and he’d given her a book she already owned? He should have bought flowers, jewellery, perfume, something  _anything_ new and exciting. “You don’t like it. That’s fine. I’ll get you something else. I’ll…”

He was cut off abruptly as she threw herself into his arms.

“You fool,” she whispered softly into his ear “It’s  _perfect_ . No-one’s ever given me… In all my life…  _Thank you.”_

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tightly.

“You really like it?” he murmured softly into her ear.

“I love it,” she replied. “It’s  _perfect_ .”

He tightened his arms around her once more, holding her close. He had to agree, this  _was_ perfect.   

 


End file.
